


you cannot conquer time

by insunshine



Category: Weekend (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russell moves on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you cannot conquer time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatz/gifts).



> I absolutely fell in love with this movie when I saw it a few months ago and was so stoked to be able to write for it on it for this exchange!
> 
> Dear Spatz, I do so hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was quite a journey. Additionally, this couldn't have been finished without Mel or AJ. Ceej's encouragement is what always keeps me going and her beta was as helpful as ever. Thanks also to the mods of the challenge for running another successful year! May there be many more awesome Yuletides to come.

Russell doesn’t think about rational things until later. He has a laptop; Glen has one of those fancy iPhones that cost about a billion pounds. There’s email and international texting and phone calls. There are about a million different options, but they hadn’t thought of them. _He_ hadn’t thought of them. He doesn’t know what Glen thought, can’t even imagine.

Jamie pops round more often for the next few weeks. He texts excessively, calls even more frequently and employs the cunning use of children's laughter over the line to entice Russell over. He’s not in the mood for company, not in the mood for anything, really, but his goddaughter drives a hard bargain and she’s difficult to resist.

Before he knows it, a month has come and gone, then two, and six have passed by the time he starts to feel himself again.

Jamie is both spectacular and spectacularly unhelpful. “I’ll be your wingman, mate,” he chides, thwacking the top of Russell’s head like the wanker he is. “Let’s go out! It’ll be brilliant.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Russell says one morning over weak coffee and truly rubbish egg sandwiches—among his many talents, Jamie is a terrible cook. There’s still smoke billowing from the kitchen and the alarm’s only just stopped going off—“I pulled him on my own, thanks. I don’t need someone to watch me make an arse of myself twice.”

Jamie laughs, the sound comforting and familiar. The nerves never really leave, Russell’s learned, not completely, but Jamie helps.

“Alright,” he concedes eventually. “Alright, I won’t come with you. But I expect a full report!” He’s laughing again, and Russell laughs too, and finds that it’s easier. It’s always easier after the first time.

When Jamie leaves, Russell tidies up. Takes a shower. Tries to do something with his hair that doesn’t make him look like an arse. He’s had it cut—Jamie’s barber, only a fiver!—and the mirror speaks more volumes than either of them combined. He looks more like a demented sheepdog than anything else. Wonderful.

It’s late when he leaves the flat, the evening air is crisp with spring tidings and May wind. He debates taking his bike or the bus but settles on the tube to Leicester Square and walking the few minutes to Soho instead. He makes it in record time.

He goes to a club—different club, same attitude—and ends up wanking off a tall bloke in the toilets whose eyelashes are so blond they nearly disappear when he closes his eyes. He comes all over Russell’s fingers, and chokes out, “Simon, I’m Simon,” against Russell’s neck.

He goes for Russell’s fly, dropping down to his knees, and Russell’s not hard, but he’s human, he gets there, and comes into Simon’s mouth eventually, his controlled moans reverberating against the tiles.

Simon wipes his lips as he stands, eyes hazy blue and dazed, and goes for a kiss. Russell takes a step to the side and offers a hug instead.

“Thanks, mate,” Russell says, words muffled against the material of Simon’s fashionable jacket.

Simon grins, teeth flashing an unnaturally blinding white and says, “So…” flirting from beneath his lashes. He’s almost too pretty. Russell imagines taking him home, fucking him on the sofa—getting fucked—and can’t. He tries to smile anyway, friendly.

“I’m really knackered.” He’s apologetic, squeezing Simon’s arm, and in his head, he hears Glen’s voice. _He’s too pretty for you anyway. Those are cock-sucking lips, and he’s barely learned the trade._ Russell winces out of it, shaking his head to clear it, and just catches the crestfallen look in Simon’s eyes.

“Another time then?” he asks, and Russell doesn’t even know the question, hasn’t been listening, but nods and gives over his mobile anyway, waiting for the exchange.

Russell kisses his cheek, his skin downy soft, and whispers, “I’ll call you,” against his ear.

He doesn’t stay, using the walk back home to clear his head.

*

It’s easier to pull if he doesn’t care. After "Simon, I'm Simon", there’s Randy Ryan, Slippery Sam and Monkey Mark, not to mention the rest. It’s a long, merciless summer, stickier and more humid than England has any right to be and the commentary from the version of Glen in Russell’s mind is always witty; cutting, but not cruel.

Jamie drops by unannounced one morning at the start of October and gets an eyeful of Mysterious Mitchum making coffees in the kitchen. Russell hears the whole exchange from his bed, and stays there even after he hears water running, low voices and the front door quietly clicking shut. Eventually, Jamie comes to stand in the doorway, leaning one-shouldered against the jamb, arms crossed loosely.

“Who was that, then?” Russell can hear the grin in his voice, self-satisfied, and snorts, eyes still closed.

“Mysterious Mitchum,” he supplies. He’s never said one of Glen’s anecdotes aloud before, but it goes over better than expected.

“Is that right?” Jamie asks, and Russell feels the bed dip with his weight. “He was throwing himself about like he owned the place.” He nudges his elbow against Russell’s side. “Budge up a bit.” Russell moves and Jamie bunches up a pillow, making himself comfortable. “He worth mentioning?”

Russell shrugs, but the answer is no. “No,” he says, because apparently it needs saying. “Just a bloke.”

Jamie snorts. “‘Just a bloke’, he says. Okay, mate.”

“Okay,” Russell agrees, burrowing down into the duvet again.

He falls back asleep, but it’s fitful, and Jamie must make lunch, because there’s too-strong coffee still in the cafetiere and half a stale sandwich on the side. Russell rolls his head, easing the muscles corded in his neck, and lets his eyes stray around the room.

The calendar’s marked; days crossed off with a single-minded determination and his breath catches strangely in his throat when he realizes it’s almost been a year. A year to the day tomorrow. He doesn’t know where all that time went.

* 

November is particularly frigid and December worse. By the time February comes around, his flat is like the Baltic, and Russell doesn’t go out much, but when he does, it’s to pubs, or little clubs packed so tightly the crowd shares each other’s sweat. Russell hasn’t had sex in weeks, but despite the gray skies, drizzle and chill, he feels good. Invigorated. Strong.

He spends Valentine’s Day with Jamie and the brood, buys a big pink bear for a laugh and forgets it on the tube. He’s useless all night, gets pissed out of his mind, and wakes up alone.

There’s a text from Jamie on his mobile in the morning that says _we appreciated the show, mate but maybe ease up next time?j x_. Russell doesn’t bother responding.

He lazes in bed for most of the day, calling in sick to work and drifting in and out of consciousness. It’s not the first time he’s lost his mind over drink, but it’s the first time he’s done it in front of Jamie in ages.

At half nine in the evening, he calls the newsagents down the road, throat sore from vomit and misuse, and mumbles, “Lucozade, please, mate, and a packet of crisps.”

The voice on the other end of the line says, “Lucozade and crisps? Really? And for that you want me to get on my bike and peddle through this monsoon?” His voice is heavy, rough from the winter weather, and Russell closes his eyes because the prolonged exposure to noise is making his head pound. Somewhere in the background, he hears a whispered argument, but the words ‘maybe he’s a good tipper’ are what stand out most.

“Please,” he mumbles pathetically. “I’ll pay double. Extra. Anything.”

Eventually, the voice says, “Fine, fine, but if I end up dead, it’s up to you to tell my mum.”

Russell didn’t know he had it in him to laugh, but he does, reedy and weak, pulling the covers over his head again. When they disconnect, he drops the wireless on the mattress and Glen’s voice inside his head says, _maybe tidy up a bit, you think? He might be fit._

The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, and Russell’s disoriented when he stands. Opening the door takes a century at least, but the delivery boy _is_ fit, with flat ginger hair and hazel eyes. Russell steps aside to let him in.

“So you’re the gobshite who couldn’t be arsed to walk five minutes down the road,” he says, dropping Russell’s shopping on the couch. His arms are crossed, the tattoo on his bicep just visible through the damp material of his shirt. He’s drenched from tip to toe and Russell just stares a moment, taking him in. “Have you turned mute, then, mate?” the boy asks, clearly annoyed.

“No, sorry,” Russell says, unfocused. “Of course. I’m sorry. I have a terrible headache.”

“Just a friendly word of advice? Take better care of yourself. You look like shite.”

Russell laughs. The sound is painful, digging deep from his lungs, and he says, “I know,” and then, “I’m not usually like this.”

The boy from the shop down the road raises his eyes behind his glasses and says, “I don’t know why I don’t believe you,” and his tone is tart, but Russell can hear a smile there, too.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” he mumbles. “I don’t quite believe myself.”

The boy laughs, his teeth flashing crooked in the low light.

They’ve been standing a while when Russell says, “Oh,” eventually, remembering himself and breaking their inadvertent staring match. The boy hovers by the door as Russell rifles through his carry-all for his wallet, pulling out a 10 pound note. “Will this do, do you think?” he asks, squinting over to where the boy has his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. “I might have something else around here—”

“It’s fine,” the boy says. “More than fine. Too much, probably, not that I’m turning you down, mind.” Their fingers brush as they exchange. “‘m Jack, by the way,” he says, clearing his throat. He smiles under his fringe and glasses. Russell offers an approximation back. “Sorry I called you a poncy arse.”

Russell coughs awkwardly, feeling the need to point out, “You didn’t.”

Jack smiles with all his teeth. “Yeah, I did, mate. I just didn’t say it to your face.”

Russell laughs again. It still hurts, jagged edges biting at his throat, but it’s okay. It’s fine, worth it for the smile he gets in return.

* 

Russell pops over to the newsagents three times in a week, even though he really doesn’t need another copy of the _Guardian_. Jack smirks from behind the counter every time, taking care to touch Russell’s hands when he makes change.

By the fourth visit, Jack leans close and says, “Why not just give us your mobile number, love? You’re killing me here with the waiting.”

Russell laughs, over the last remnants of his hangover and the stirrings of a cold. “I thought I was a gobshite,” he says.

Jack reaches across the counter and wraps bony fingers around Russell’s wrist. “I want you to know something,” he says seriously, tugging Russell forward. The wood of the counter digs grooves into his belly.

Russell blinks. “Okay,” he says, forcing a smile. His skin prickles from the contact. “Let’s have it.”

Jack takes longer than strictly necessary, looking deep into Russell’s eyes before saying, “You’ll always be a gobshite,” shadowing his smile with his teeth. “Just thought you’d like to hear it from someone who cares.”

“Why d’you want my number so bad, then?”

Jack smiles, and there’s something filthy in it, something gorgeous. The fluorescents glint off his glasses. “You know? I happen to like gobshites.”

They kiss, right there, with a block of wood between them and chocolate and crisps and bags of sweets all around. Jack’s fingers are freezing as he hooks them against the back of Russell’s t-shirt.

“You’re a much better kisser than I thought you’d be,” Jack says with a laugh. He pushes Russell away with the heel of his palm. “You look so shy.”

Russell laughs again, hasn’t laughed this much in months, a year. “What makes you think I’m shy?” he asks. He’s flirting. They’re flirting. It’s nice.

Jack laughs, too, throaty and too full, completely at odds with his skinny frame and worn plaid. “It’s the smile,” he says. “You smile like a kid.”

“Shut up,” Russell says. The words cut as they go down, even though they obviously weren’t meant to. He smiles to cover, but isn’t as successful as he wants.

“Make me,” Jack responds with a smile. His hair is the color of a dying fire. Russell wants to touch it, so he does, but it’s not as soft as it looks, and Jack laughs as he tugs, shoving him off. “Stop! That’s not how I meant, you wanker!”

“Make me,” Russell parrots, and they don’t end up tussling right there, but it’s a close thing. A display of magazines tips, but that just makes them laugh harder.

“You’re a menace,” Jack says. “A great big menace with a beard he thinks makes him look cool.”

Russell grins. “You think I look cool?”

“I think _you_ think you look cool,” Jack replies, all cheek. It would be funny if it were true. Russell kisses him again, ignoring the rush of protesting words on his lips.

* 

They start to see each other after that. It’s casual, but nice. Russell doesn’t fuck anybody else, although he doesn’t ask if Jack has been. They spend long hours in Russell’s flat shagging and smoking weed and talking about old things, making up histories for each of his cracked plates and well-loved mugs. Jack is a better cook than Jamie is, not that it would be hard. He’s from Derby, but he and his mum relocated to London when he was fifteen.

“After the bad year,” he says one morning over coffee and egg sandwiches. He shrugs his thin shoulders, naked from the waist up, but doesn’t seem embarrassed about it. He speaks candidly when he says, “My dad weren’t right when he left the Navy.” He wraps both hands around his mug, dropping his gaze to blow over the dark liquid, and that’s the only concession that the words might hurt. “Mum got us out of there before it could get much worse.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Russell’s sorry he asked, but he doesn’t say so, sliding their bare feet together under the table.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, trying for sincere, and Jack rolls his eyes when he lifts them again, snorting under his breath.

“You can stop with the charming, there,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. “You asked about the scars, so I told you, but you don’t have to pretend you care.”

Russell does care, but what he says instead is, “I’m glad you got out.” It takes the wind out of both of them, but when Jack smiles eventually; it’s genuine, crooked teeth and all.

Russell’s mobile goes off twice when they’re dressed and kissing by the door. Jack’s wound his scarf around Russell’s neck, looping him close and he laughs at the vibrations at their thighs, breaking away to quip, “Is that a phone in your pocket, or?”

“Or,” Russell nods, tugging the phone out and thumbing ignore when he doesn’t recognize the number. He kisses Jack again. “Best we go, though. We’re going to be late.”

Jack snorts. “You’re going to be late. I’m visiting with Mum today. I make my own hours.”

“Or you drag yourself in when you smell her making dinner, you mean,” Russell replies.

In the hallway, Jack says, “Sent from the Gods, that woman is. You’ve never had a better steak and kidney pie, mark my words.”

They’re not particularly affectionate in public, but Jack grins at Russell’s neighbors, showing off his smile and shoves him as they wait for the lift, fingers curling around the bones of Russell’s shoulder before pushing. Russell shoves back, and it makes Jack laugh, throwing back his head and exposing his throat.

They walk together to the road, but they’re heading in different directions. They don’t hug, but Jack’s eyes are actually twinkling as he says, far too loudly, “Russ, mate, maybe get that condition checked out? That thing looks _dangerous_.”

At least two older women turn to stare, clutching their handbags to them as though they’ll serve as protection from Russell’s phantom disease.

“And I’m the menace?” Russell asks under his breath.

Jack nods seriously. “You are.” He shoves Russell’s shoulder again, and with one last look over his shoulder, he’s fading, his frame swallowed up by the masses.

It’s illegal, but Russell checks his messages on his bike en route to work, pressing the mobile to his ear tightly as he navigates. The first voice mail is typical Jamie. His, “You know, I knew your boyfriend before you knew him. He used to give me shit for buying cigs. Real keeper he is. Call us back, huh? The girls miss you.”

The second message makes him nearly swerve his bike into oncoming traffic. There’s a cough on the line and then, “Russell? Hi,” her voice drags, thick from smoke and Russell’s stomach constricts so tightly it feels like metal bands are coiling his waist. “It’s Jill. Glen’s, well. Glen’s old flatmate. Fuck, I hope this is still your number.” There’s a rustling on the line, and Russell can’t force himself to breathe for the ten seconds it takes for her to continue. “He’s. Well. He’s coming home in a few weeks—nearly done and he couldn’t even finish the course, the git, I told him, but—” there’s a beeping, and she swears under her breath.

Russell pulls the mobile away from his ear and stares down at it like it’s something foreign, disconnecting before he finishes listening. It’s been more than a year with no word. She has nothing to say that he needs to hear.

* 

Jack rings that night. Russell’s in the toilet when it comes through, though, and he uses it as an excuse not to call back, not that he feels better for it. The message Jack leaves is succinct, but he’s laughing. “Call me back, you shit, before I call you something worse.”

He sleeps on the sofa.

Jamie wakes him in the morning by pounding on the door, even though he has a key. Russell curses him with every filthy word he knows and doesn’t change his mind when he opens the door either, bleary-eyed and exhausted. Jamie is morning-smug and holding a tray of coffees in his hands like an apology.

“If you didn’t have a child, I would push you in front of a speeding vehicle,” Russell mumbles instead of a hello, wiping at his face with the heels of his palms. His eyes feel gritty, like he slept through a sand storm instead of just on the sofa. He takes one of the drinks and slumps back inside.

Jamie follows as expected and says, “No you wouldn’t,” to which Russell has to agree. “Where’s the man, then?” he asks after a moment, when Jack isn’t forthcoming. “I figured now was the right time to meet him. Official-like.”

Russell groans down a swallow of cappuccino and plants back on the sofa before he says, “Of course you’d think 8am was the perfect time to conduct introductions.” Jamie just laughs, the bastard. “You know, you weren’t this bad when we were kids.”

“That was when I could trust you to take care of yourself,” he says, and then makes space next to Russell on the sofa, resting a comforting arm around his shoulders.

“I can take care of myself,” Russell says. “I’ve been doing it for years, mate. Popping round to see me is one thing, but popping round to _spy_ —”

“I didn’t ‘expect to meet’ Mysterious Mitchum, brother, he was here.”

“Like you weren’t looking,” Russell mumbles. He rubs his palms over his face again and on the coffee table, his mobile starts to buzz.

Jamie peeks at the view screen as he lifts it from the glass and says, “So he’s really not here?” making a disappointed face. Russell shrugs. His palms itch. Jamie hands the phone over and his smile is filled with the kind of unholy glee only siblings seem to save for each other’s most embarrassing moments.

“Hello,” Russell says, pushing up to his feet as he answers.

“He’s alive!” Jack shouts, but Russell bets himself a tenner there’s no one else in the room. “I thought you’d been kidnapped by wolves.” There’s a smile in his voice.

“Rabid ones,” Russell replies, moving in the kitchen for some water. The coffee tastes too heavy on his tongue, a shade too sweet. “They kept my mobile hostage and forced coffee on me.”

Jack laughs, and says, “Sound like some brilliant wolves,” and the matter is dropped.

They make plans to see each other later in the day as Russell walks back out to the living room, collapsing back on the sofa next to Jamie. He hands over the cup of water as he makes his goodbyes, and the two of them are silent where they sit, staring off at different places in the distance.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jamie asks eventually, but Russell can hear the real question under so many years of friendship.

He shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” he says, mostly because it’s true.

“Objectively speaking,” Jamie continues. “As a heterosexual man—”

Russell rolls his eyes. “Yes?”

“—with a brilliant wife and an amazing daughter—”

“Objectively speaking,” Russell mimics.

“Yes.” Jamie laughs, but his eyes are serious. “Objectively speaking, mate, he’s quite fit. He makes you laugh; you’re getting pissed less—”

“We drink a lot together,” Russell points out, making a play for honesty.

Jamie pretends to consider the words, and then pulls out the big guns. “You haven’t fucked a stranger in months,” he says plainly, and Russell winces, trying not to rake over the memories.

“ _Jamie_ ,” he pleads, but either Jamie’s known him too long, or he’s in an unforgiving mood, but he doesn’t drop his eyes.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jamie repeats.

Russell shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, still honest. “Nothing. He’s a nice sort, for a kid.”

Jamie snorts. “Kid? Please tell me you don’t get up to that with children.”

“Youngish-bloke-whom-I-am-currently-shagging, then,” Russell offers in return, but Jamie doesn’t smile, he waits. They really have known each other far too long, but that’s how things are with families born from necessity. “Glen’s flatmate called,” Russell mumbles, nearly under his breath. “Says he’s coming back, says—” he cuts himself off, hears the excitement in his voice and tamps it down. “I don’t know. She left a message on my mobile.”

Jamie is quiet for longer than is strictly necessary. He clears his throat and then says, “So that’s it for Jack, then?”

Russell blinks. “Where’s the stalwart advice here, mate? Telling me to go for Glen once and for all? You drove me to the station.”

"Nearly two years ago,” Jamie counters, as if it’s that simple. “Nearly two years ago, when I hadn’t seen you excited about a bloke like that in ages.” He shrugs, and for the first time, he looks uncomfortable in Russell’s flat, in his space. “I thought you liked Jack.”

Russell groans, hiding his face in a pillow. “Just because I’m gay,” he says, when he pulls back for air. “Doesn’t mean we have to sit around having conversations about our feelings, Jamie.”

“I don’t care about your feelings because you’re gay,” Jamie says, leaning across Russell to poke at his ribs. “I care about your feelings because I love you.” It’s a simple statement, but Russell is still caught off guard by it. “You cock.”

* 

They go for a walk after Russell washes up. It’s freezing outside, even though it’s May again, and the sun is peeking through the clouds, but just barely.

“Looks like rain,” Jamie says when they stop somewhere for tea and sandwiches.

“It always looks like rain.”

Jamie laughs. “True enough,” he says. They get seated soon after.

The cafe is quaint, the kind a family runs, maybe, or the kind that’s made to look that way. Russell stares at the art on the walls, bodies painted with thick brushstrokes twisted together, bursting with color and life. They make him think of Glen.

“Are you going to tell me what you think?” he asks once their tea has been served and their sandwiches selected.

Jamie wipes at his mouth before he speaks and then he says, “You knew Glen for what, a weekend? One weekend, and he ruined your entire life.”

“He did not ruin—”

Jamie levels his gaze and says, “How many people have you fucked since he left?” He’s not a very serious man, not really, not about much other than the girls, and Russell and Arsenal, but he’s quiet now, staring Russell down in a cafe on a Saturday morning when he could be doing anything else.

“A few,” Russell mumbles, taking a sip of tea to keep from speaking.

“A few,” Jamie parrots, brows raised. “A few? Mysterious Mitchum and Jack and that’s it? No one before or in between?”

“Why does this matter?” Russell asks.

Jamie shrugs. “You were happy before,” he says. “Things weren’t perfect, but you were doing fine. Sometimes you were lonely, but everybody’s lonely, and who’s to say that even if this bloke showed up here tomorrow, who’s to say that if he did, and you started again, that it would even be worth it?”

“He might not want to,” Russell replies, sounding small.

“Of course he’ll want to,” Jamie scoffs. “Of course he’ll want to, Russ. Who wouldn’t want to?”

“He didn’t stay.” It’s a low blow. Russell would have never asked Glen to stay. The point was to wish him well. To wish him _better_.

Jamie rolls his eyes and says, “You didn’t ask him.” He shrugs. “That afternoon at the station, I saw you when you got back to the car, mate. You could’ve asked him and he would’ve stayed.”

“What, and hated me afterward? No.”

The waitress comes with their food. She’s a pretty girl with slicked back hair and rosy cheeks. She’s wise enough, too, to drop off their food and leave off without comment.

“What if you had started a life together?” Jamie asks. “What if he’d stayed and you had?”

“Then we would have.” Russell swallows hard. “But he didn’t and we didn’t—Jamie, what is the point to all this?”

Jamie shrugs. “What if it hadn’t come to anything? What if the relationship fizzled? Russell, what if he was just a very nice bloke with a very nice arse who you shagged one weekend?”

Russell stares down at his hands, at the hole in his jeans and the fresh layer of mud on his trainers. “That’s all it was, mate,” he says when he looks up. “That’s all he was. A very nice bloke with a very nice arse.” He shrugs again. “You’re not wrong.”

Jamie eyes him warily, spearing a stray tomato with his fork. “And Jack?”

“Why do you care so much about Jack?”

“Maybe I thought he was fit and wanted a piece on the side—”

“Or maybe you want your bollocks cut off.”

Jamie smiles. “Maybe.” He doesn’t add anything else, like he’s waiting. Of course he is. This is what they do, this is what they’ve always done, pointing each other in the right direction, or trying, anyway.

“I was just surprised,” Russell says. “I haven’t even thought about him in weeks, not really. Not Glen the person, but not even Glen—”

“There’s more than one version of Glen?”

Russell laughs weakly. “Sometimes I’d hear his voice in my head,” he says. It sounds even more ludicrous out loud. “Like, ‘Mysterious Mitchum’? That was him. In my head, I mean. That was him. That’s what I thought he’d say.”

“What did Glen—Glen-inside-your-mind—have to say about Jack?” He takes a bite of his sandwich and says, “You are a crazy one, mate, Christ. An ex-boyfriend living inside your head. Where do you come up with these things?”

Russell’s cheeks color. “It’s not like that,” he says, speaking fast, like Jamie might try and steal his words if he doesn’t get them out quickly enough. “It wasn’t as though one day I said, ‘today I’ll imagine that Glen is speaking to me from another continent, and making biting commentary about the blokes I bring home’. It just happened sometimes.”

“Do you think we should go on one of those ‘psychic network’ television programs?” Jamie asks. “Maybe try and win us a million pounds?”

“Yes,” Russell says. “Definitely. Brilliant.”

Jamie takes another bite of his sandwich. “I’ll call someone right after lunch,” he says.

* 

Jack drops by in the later evening, takes one look at the coffee on, the dusted room and Russell in a striped shirt and says, “Fuck me, this is the end, isn’t it? You’re a bobby, dragging me off to prison for all the hash I’ve been smoking.” He holds his wrists out in front of himself, pressed together, and turns his face away, eyes closed. “Do it now, and do it quick, mate. I don’t want to look upon the face of my betrayer.”

Russell doesn’t expect to laugh, but of course he does, and Jack cracks and eye open, grinning cheekily over at him.

“And I’m the wanker?” Russell asks, but fondly, and Jack grins as he straightens up.

“No,” he says. “You’re the gobshite, Judas. Keep them straight.” They kiss in the middle of the room; Russell dragging Jack close, as close as he can get him.

They shed their clothes there, and Russell’s frantic, pulling away buttons and yanking at zippers, pressing Jack down against the floor and slotting their bodies together. They’ve barely got their pants off, but he doesn’t care, and Jack’s nails dig grooves against his neck, leaving half-crescent scars in their wake.

Jack gasps and says, “Someone missed me, I think,” but he’s just as manic with his kisses. Russell comes first, quick and messily against Jack’s thigh and his unbuttoned shirt.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry.” He kisses Jack’s throat, his neck, leaving bites and bruises wherever he can. It doesn’t take Jack much longer to follow, not with how sensitive his skin must be, and they’re a collapsed heap of skin and bones by the time either speak again.

“‘s’okay,” Jack mumbles. He pats the bare skin at Russell’s back, touching him softly, reverently. “If that’s how you’ll be every time you ignore me for a night, I’ll take it.”

Russell rolls his eyes, but a guilty flush creeps up his cheeks and chin. “I wasn’t ignoring you,” he protests, suddenly too testy and defensive for having come so recently. “Wolves, remember?”

Jack snorts. “How could I forget the wolves?”

“They were frightening,” Russell teases, but it falls more flat than anything.

“Wolves tend to be that way,” Jack says, sitting up and wiping himself off with the tail of his ruined shirt. He scoots back, bare skin on the wood. He’s not frowning, he’s focused, but Russell feels the shift, the distance. It makes his stomach seize.

“What’s wrong?” he blurts, although that’s the worst thing to say. Jack blinks up at him, eyes guarded but lazy.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, mate,” he says, kicking his trousers all the way off and his pants down to his ankles. He stands, heading for the toilet. “You tell me,” he calls from over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. A moment later, the shower goes on. Russell considers his options. He could sit there, a mess on the floor amidst their clothes and torn buttons, or he could follow.

He chooses the shower.

Jack’s standing just outside it when Russell pokes his head in, cupping his balls to stave off the chill. That’s something they never show in romantic movies or pornography, the waiting period before the water heats up.

“Hi,” Russell says, trying not to stare.

“Hi,” Jack repeats, maintaining eye contact. He’s broad-shouldered, but slim-hipped. There isn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on him.

“Can I join you?” Russell asks. He feels an idiot for asking in his own flat, but Jack made the first move, he’s the one following.

“I don’t know,” Jack says, eyes twinkling. “Can you?”

* 

Jill doesn’t try ringing again. Probably she thought he’d changed his number or something. He isn't the type of bloke not to return a call.

He’s mostly put it out of his head until he comes home a month later to a slumped figure on the front step, sleeping with a pillowed jacket and bare feet.

“Excuse me,” Russell says, quietly as he can, trying to maneuver over the man without disturbing him too much. “Sorry, I just need—” the man pops his eyes open, pulling his jacket down and it’s Glen. Of course it’s Glen. “Um,” Russell manages. “Hello.”

Glen pushes himself sitting, brushing off his hair, and says, “Hello,” with a smile. “You’re looking well.”

There are a million ways Russell pictured this going. He’d look better; less chlorine-clogged, maybe, dressed in anything but muddy trainers and tracksuit bottoms. He’d’ve shaved, have a few less love-bites on his neck. He’d be taller. Broader. Something.

He swallows. “Hello,” he says again, and Glen smiles, but it’s not cruel. He looks different. More tanned but less skinny. His eyes are exactly the same.

“Hello,” Glen repeats, then pushes himself up to his feet and drapes his jacket over his arm. “Sorry about popping round like this,” he says. “I’ve only just arrived.”

Russell nods, as though Glen’s presence here is actually something he can comprehend. “Right, well. Fancy a cup of tea, then?”

“I could murder a coffee,” Glen says, and their words overlap.

Russell blinks, and Glen smiles back, slipping on his shoes—smart green with white trim. They’re fancier than anything Russell owns, but they don’t look out of place on Glen; classic but casual.

Glen touches his arm, and Russell doesn’t jump, keeps calm, but it’s a near thing. He just wasn’t expecting it.

“You look different,” Glen says, but he’s warm, and his eyes are friendly.

Russell nods. “You, um.” He clears his throat unnecessarily. “You too,” he mumbles. “You look _American_.”

Glen laughs, and the sound is surprisingly familiar. Russell feels the goose-pimples prickling down his arms, his legs, fingers and toes. He tries to smile, but fails at that, too.

“Do I?” Glen asks. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not, considering I couldn’t even finish the course.”

It’s less self-deprecating than Russell expected. He sounds apologetic, but not sad, not bitter. It’s a new version of Glen, a blank canvass in dark jeans and green shoes.

“I doubt it was your fault,” Russell reasons. “You could have stayed there for twenty years if you were supposed to.”

It’s Glen’s turn to blink, and Russell’s not standing close enough, but he thinks Glen may be blushing. That would be new.

“That’s very kind,” Glen says eventually. His mouth is quirked up, but it’s not even a smile and Russell feels a thud in his chest at how pink and sun-chapped Glen’s lips are. There are crinkles at his eyes that hadn’t been as prominent two years previous. He has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose now, too. Russell doesn’t remember them from before. He can’t stop staring. “Isn’t that strange?” Glen asks. “I didn’t expect you to still be kind.”

Russell swallows again, and still his words come out thick. He wants to be smooth, he wants to be clever and aloof, but he was never good at any of those things, so he just says, “You thought about me?” and carefully tries to remain breathing.

Glen shrugs a single shoulder and smiles again. It looks more prepared this time, like this was a question he expected. “Off and on,” he says. He steps back, hands in his pockets, eyes grazing Russell over as if committing this new version to memory.

“Oh?” Russell asks, and his voice doesn’t crack like he fears. He’ll take it.

Glen grins then, though, showing off his smile. He says, “Yes, you arse, I thought about you quite a bit.” He shrugs, shivering in his sodden clothes.

Russell tries to smile as he leads them inside. They don’t talk much in the lift, but their elbows brush; Russell’s bare skin against the cloth of Glen’s jumper and the sensation shoots through him like a star.

On his floor, they keep the doors open for the elderly lady that lives next door but one and—Russell keeps looking around, waiting for Jack to pop out from somewhere, nattering on about his shift being cancelled or his mum working too hard and taking another double shift anyway despite it, but there’s nothing, just the same paint that’s been peeling as long as he’s lived there and the vague smell of antiseptic that always seems to cling to the walls.

“I would have been really embarrassed if you hadn’t lived here any longer,” Glen says behind closed doors. The place hasn’t changed much since he was last there, but Russell still imagines it through his eyes, takes in the shabby sofa and the pictures still hanging over his bed. At least the sheets have changed.

“You?” Russell asks, putting the coffee on and slumping next to the stovetop. “You, embarrassed.” He laughs. “I never thought I’d see it. What did they teach you there in America?”

Glen smiles, filthy and slow and says, “Oh, this and that.” He shrugs. “I can whistle now.”

“Whistling’s quite a talent.”

“So I’ve heard,” Glen says, and then he comes closer, leaning back against the wall and the window, his arm bumping into Russell’s again. He closes his eyes for a while, breathing deep and normal, almost like he’s asleep standing up. “Hey,” he murmurs eventually. Russell doesn’t have to shift his attention much; he’s been staring pretty much constantly.

“Hey,” Russell mimics, trying for a smile.

Glen smiles back. “You have hickeys on your neck,” he says. How long have they really known each other? Russell wonders. All in all, it was less than seventy-two hours. It doesn’t explain how he knows that Glen doesn’t mince words, how he knew Glen would mention it, not to be cruel, but because it needed mentioning.

“Yeah,” Russell says, because he’s a terrible liar.

“I’m not a forensic scientist,” Glen says, A non sequitur if Russell’s ever heard one, but then Glen laughs and derails the whole thing. “Although you’d never believe it, the Americans are mad for them. The more people they can kill in a single episode of television, the better.”

“We had one too, didn’t we? With the girl from _Doctor Who_ , yeah? Martha.” Russell asks. “Law & Order.”

Glen hums in agreement, and then repeats himself. “I’m no scientist, so I can’t tell. Are the mouth-marks there from the same person or different persons?”

“And here I thought you’d picked up a new trade in America,” Russell says, trying for cheek. Glen lifts his mouth in an approximation of a smile, but leaves it at that. His eyes are focused, but Russell drops his gaze as he says, “The same. Singular person.”

Glen nods, reaching out like he’s actually going to touch the memory of Jack’s mouth on Russell’s throat. He doesn’t, dropping his hand but smiling again.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says eventually, when they look at each other again. Glen’s gaze is clear, direct. “You were—you _are_ a catch.”

Russell snorts and says, “I’m sorry, mate, have you met me?”

Glen grins, then, and the full-force of it nearly staggering. “I know you intimately,” he says, leaning closer. The tips of their noses nearly touch, Glen standing with either of his legs around one of Russell’s own. They’re too close, this is too much. Russell expects his mobile to ring, for Jack to be an overbearing reminder, so that he can deliberately ignore the months of good times for this sliver of something that could’ve been even better.

“I, um,” Russell says, clearing his throat. “I have—I’m seeing someone.” He straightens to his full height, not towering over Glen, but using the paltry inches to his advantage. The further apart they are the better, probably.

Glen steps back, holding his hands up casually, only a half-arsed surrender. “I wasn’t—”

“I know,” Russell says, talking over him. “I know, but I _was_. I have made so many mistakes since you left, but Jack isn’t one of them.” It’s quite the declaration. Glen blinks. Russell mimics the gesture and wonders where the words come from.

“Jack,” Glen murmurs, testing the word, rolling it around in his mouth to see how it tastes.

“Jack,” Russell repeats.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Glen says. Even as he speaks, he’s peering at Russell like he can see beneath his clothes and skin, down between the muscles and tendons holding his bones in place and right straight through his heart and out the other side.

“Do you think so?” Russell asks eventually. “I’m glad you did.”

“You’re ...glad,” Glen says with another smile. This one shows off all his teeth but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I bet Jack won’t be glad.”

Russell starts to speak without thinking, but catches himself in time. He shrugs instead and offers, “Probably not. He’s a jealous bugger.”

He can tell Glen wasn’t expecting it from the way he laughs, curling in on himself. The noise is a loud bark of a thing, something familiar shrouded in the need to be heard.

“I’ll have to be careful,” he says eventually.

Russell nods, can’t help smiling. “He’d probably talk you to death,” he says. “Although he might break your nose, too.” He squints at Glen, imagining the action. “He’s a mite protective.”

“Is he now?” Glen asks with a snort. “And what does he think of me, then?”

Russell’s often found himself at a loss for words where Glen is involved, but standing in his kitchen on a dank and dreary June afternoon, he has absolutely no answers, nothing at all to say except for, “He doesn’t,” with a shrug. “What would I even say?”

* 

At the beginning of August, Jack says, “A holiday! Ahmed owes me and it’s my birthday. I get five days, plus the weekend. Let’s do something, Christ, _please_ ,” and so they go camping in wilds of Wales.

It rains the whole week, but it’s okay. Most of their time is spent naked in the tent, anyway, sweaty bodies pressed together as tightly as they’ll go, listening to the rain beat against the battered tarp.

“Do you ever think about, like,” Jack says one morning, tracing a secret pattern on Russell’s chest with his thumbnail. “Y’ever think about, what if this were Harry Potter, like, and we were just Muggles?” Russell doesn’t mean to laugh but he does, and Jack elbows him in the throat, hard, right where it hurts, and then says, “See if I share deep, personal musings with you ever again, you gobshite.”

He laughs about it, though, trying to hide his embarrassment, and Russell laughs too, takes a look at Jack’s face, and laughs again harder, tipping Jack onto his back and pressing his face into Jack’s neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers against Jack’s skin. “I’m sorry. Tell me. Make your Harry Potter comparisons. I’m ready.”

Jack rolls his eyes, eyeballing Russell like he’s ready to strike again, if necessary.

“I don’t know, mate,” he says, shifting up. The sleeping bag slides down his hip, exposing his bare skin to the cool air. The goose pimples appear almost instantly. “Wouldn’t it be such a tragedy, knowing that you were never special enough to be included?”

“You are special,” Russell teases, kissing Jack’s neck again and starting to slide further down his body.

Jack laughs, letting the assault happen. His fingers curl into Russell’s hair, but he’s gentle. He’s always oddly gentle during sex, like it’s the one time he can really relax. “This isn’t Blue Peter,” Jack says through a sigh as Russell mouths at the head of his cock, nestled against his stomach. “You don’t have to placate me, Russ.”

Russell starts to laugh. He can’t help it, and he can’t focus, but Jack’s hands get more insistent in his hair, thumbs pressed against points on his skull like an anchor.

“Don’t you dare move,” Jack moans. “You can’t imagine how good that feels.”

When he gets control of himself, Russell rolls securely onto his stomach, swallowing Jack down as far as he can. His throat feels full, too full probably, but he doesn’t stop ‘til his nose is pressed to Jack’s pubic bone, the coarse hair there tickling his skin.

He can’t do much with Jack that deep. He sheaths his teeth, remembers to breathe and tries to suck.

Jack comes quickly. Russell swallows, because he doesn’t have much choice, but he doesn’t regret it. Jack’s smiling when he pulls back up anyway, eyes glassy and sort of soft, and he pulls Russell close as he wipes phantom stains from the corners of his mouth, kissing Russell’s hair. Their chests are tacky with sweat and proximity, and Russell’s erection is trapped loosely between their bracketed thighs, but it’s not a pressing concern.

“You know,” he says eventually, when his throat is working properly again. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. “If you just wanted to have lots of sex, we could’ve saved the hassle of booking a pitch and shagged in my flat.”

Jack pulls back, touching Russell’s face softly, smoothing his calloused thumbs against the panes of his face, unearthing the new lines, new crags and grooves. “Baby,” he croons eventually, terribly off-key. “We’re communing with nature.”

* 

They spend twenty minutes kissing in the road outside Russell’s flat the day they get back, fingers fitting to each other’s sides, digging under shirts, trying to find skin.

“You’d’ve thought we didn’t just waste a whole month’s pay shagging in the woods,” Jack laughs, but he doesn’t push Russell away, and Russell doesn’t think to move.

They don’t come, this isn’t that type of kissing, but by the time they push out of the hire car, their legs are jelly, knees and muscles cramped.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Jack mutters under his breath. He eyes Russell on the side, lips quirking up in a smile.

“You’re _twenty-two_ ,” Russell groans. “You’re still an infant, you fucking brat.” He wraps an arm around Jack’s head anyway, pushing him close and pressing a kiss to his hair.

“You love it,” Jack says, and Russell can’t disagree.

Russell’s looking for his key when Jack kicks him. Russell pokes his head up and asks, “What?” before really taking in the scene.

Glen’s slumped on the front step again, looking lovely and wet from the rain.

“Hello,” he says. He stands; wiping his palms on the legs of his pants, and holds his hand out. “You must be Jack.”

Russell blinks between the both of them, Jack smiling politely as they shake.

“I am,” Jack says, standing like he’s proud to be under Russell’s arm, his hair still tousled from their time in the car.

“I’m Glen,” Glen says, and Russell’s searching for something to shout at, something secret or manipulative. “Russell and I were—well.” His smile falters, but he saves it and says, “We were friends before I went away.”

“What,” Jack counters, never missing a beat. “You a nutter or something?”

Glen laughs, which is good, because one of them should. “No,” he says eventually. “Not to my knowledge, anyway.”

“It’d be okay with me, mind,” Jack says, spanning his hands out wide. “Nutters are people too.”

“I was studying in America,” Glen says, eventually. “There was a job. There _is_ a job, I suppose.”

Russell stops smiling, feels his teeth start to ache as he says, “Is?” He’s not even sure he’s been heard.

Jack says, “Definitely a nutter, then.” He rolls his eyes as he repeats Glen’s words. “America. What the hell d’you go there for, mate? All the culture's here.”

Glen smiles at them both. He has a cut on his lip, it’s tearing right on the seam in the middle and he says, “You’re absolutely right, Jack. Who would ever want to leave?”

* 

“So he’s leaving,” Jamie says over tea the next afternoon. They’re alone in the house, because the girls are out shopping for the party. He stuffs a biscuit into his mouth whole. “Again,” he finishes, and sprays the crumbs from his mouth everywhere, of course.

Russell wants to laugh, but he can’t. His throat is too full of things he’s not ready to say.

“You’re such a git,” is what he comes up with eventually, getting a tea towel to wipe the mess. His hands are shaking, so he stuffs them into his pockets, but it’s not much use. Jamie is far too intuitive for his own good.

“You going with him then?” Jamie asks, brows raised.

Russell winces at his tone but can’t blame him for it. It’s so non-judgmental that it’s veering in the first direction all on its own.

“He didn’t ask me,” he says, because it’s the truth.

Jamie clears his throat and Russell’s ready; he’s prepared for anything. Well, anything except for, “Would you have gone if he’d asked you the first time?”

It doesn’t knock the breath out of him, but it’s a near thing. “Um,” Russell hedges, stalling for time. “No. Of course not.” He’d thought of a million possibilities two years ago in the car on the way to the station. A million things to say, a million reasons for Glen to stay and Glen to go and Glen to remember him by. None of them had sounded good enough. “No,” he repeats. “My life is here.”

“No,” Jamie says quietly. “ _My_ life is here.” He shrugs. “I have a great job, mate. I have a wife I love more than life and a daughter I marvel at every time she opens her eyes.” He pours more tea, and his hands are sure, steady on the china.

“Are you saying I won’t be fulfilled until I find the perfect job, gorgeous wife and scary genius daughter?” Russell asks, going for a joke.

Jamie shrugs. “No,” he says, and then, “Do you love Jack?”

Russell chokes on his tea. “Do I—” he coughs out. It should be funny, the sight of him dribbling choked-out tea into a piece of kitchen roll, spitting in the sink. It should be hilarious, a gag, but it’s not. His stomach is sick and Jamie looks expectant.

“I’m not saying you have to,” he says. “But if I’d asked you last time, if I’d asked you if you loved Glen—”

“It was one _weekend_ ,” Russell says. “One weekend, remember? We got pissed, messed about in my flat and—”

“And then met up again and again. We drove to the station, mate,” Jamie reminds him; like Russell hadn’t lived it, like it had been someone else’s life entirely. Maybe it had been. He doesn’t feel like the same man.

“I wish you wouldn’t keep bringing up Jack like I’m cheating on him every time he turns his back,” Russell mutters, but that’s not what Jamie’s doing at all, and they both know it.

Jamie presses his palm to Russell’s shoulder, tugging him close. He rests their foreheads together like he hasn’t since they were kids, and says, “When you saw him, when he said ‘America’ and ‘again’—all I’m asking is, was the first thought in your head of walking along some pseudo-historic street drinking trendy coffees and using a shit American accent, or was it …” he trails off, and for long seconds they just stand there, staring at each other, breathing one another’s air.

“What is it?” Russell asks, voice choked and desperate. “What’s the other option, Jamie?”

Jamie shrugs again, too wise for his own good. “There’s not another option, mate,” he says. “You’d know it otherwise, wouldn’t you?”

* 

Jack’s great-aunt Agatha dies at the end of the summer, after an illness so horrible everyone breaths a sigh of relief that at least she’ll have some peace now.

“She practically raised Mum,” Jack mumbles, nearly drowning in the heavy material of his suit, a full size too big for him at least. “She was—she was.” They’ve borrowed Jamie’s car for the occasion and Russell can’t see much from the driver’s position, but he watches as Jack as he presses his fists against his eyes and breathes deep.

Russell reaches over, prying his fingers flat and twining their hands together. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not the first time he’s said it since Jack heard the news, and it’s not the last time he’ll say it either, but it is the only thing that fits the circumstances.

Jack laughs, suddenly and says, “She would’ve hated you,” squeezing Russell’s fingers. “She couldn’t stand that I was a shirt-lifter.” He shakes his head, like the numerous lectures on C of E purity are suddenly hilarious now. “There was this one about a banana and.” He stops himself with another smothered laugh. “She would’ve really hated you.”

Russell allows himself to smile and says, “I wouldn’t have let on that I knew.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “‘Course not. Had to let her think she was being supportive, meanwhile, you can see the looks she’d be shooting Auntie Clementine behind your head.” He shakes himself out of it, but the smile lingers. Russell squeezes Jack’s hand as hard as he can.

They’re not late, but they’re not early, and Jack gets out first, stretching out his legs and then his arms. He looks so much younger than his years in his too-large suit, but Russell doesn’t comment on it.

They hold hands as they push into the church, Jack’s fingernails digging grooves into the back of Russell’s palm. He doesn’t let go, and the service goes much more quickly than he would’ve expected.

When it’s over, the body lowered into the ground on a grassy knoll with peace for miles and just a smattering of rain, Jack whispers, “Thanks for coming, Russ,” his voice rough from tears.

Russell squeezes his hand and says, “Of course,” but he thinks he’s missed the mark.

Jack slips away, goes to say hello to the smattering of family members gathered around, leaving Russell to the view. It’s warm out, too warm for the heavy material of his suit, but it’s a beautiful area, green for miles around.

Eventually, Jack comes back, dragging with him a thin woman with a too-wide mouth. Their features are exactly the same, and he’s chattering about something, animated but somber. It’s a strange combination to see, but on Jack, it fits. “Hey,” he says with a smile. His eyes are red. “Russ, I want you to meet my mum.” He rolls through the introductions and says, “Mum, this is Russell. Be nice. I might like him.”

Jack’s mother dabs at her eyes delicately and says, “I am always nice, Jack. Honestly.” She wipes her palms discreetly, and leans up to kiss Russell’s cheek. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Russell. Jack speaks quite highly of you.”

Russell’s cheeks burn, and he says, “And you, Mrs O’Connell. I’m sorry we couldn’t have—that is, under better circumstances.”

She nods, and looks away, but doesn’t start to cry again. Jack meets his eyes over his mother’s head and indicates toward the crowd. She’ll need to be around family now.

Russell doesn’t often imagine what it would be like to have a connection to his blood relations. Jamie and the girls are more than enough on a normal day, but now Russell wonders what it would feel like to lose the closest thing he had to a parent. He supposes the directors at the childrens’ home could be counted, but he can hardly remember their faces, let alone their names.

When Jack comes back, he’s smoking. He drops down next to Russell on the grass, leaning his head against Russell’s shoulder, and passing the cig over without comment.

“This is shit,” he says.

Russell agrees. “I’m sorry,” he says again. They are the only words that seem adequate.

Jack rolls to his side, smiling up at Russell in the sunlight. “You need to stop saying that,” he says. “Don’t apologize for things you had no business in.” He rolls his shoulders up slowly and adds, “You’ll start apologizing for the whole world and then where will be?”

They don’t stay much longer, even though there’s quite a spread set up at the house. They beg off, exchanging kisses and lingering hugs in the car park of the church and the drive back to Russell’s flat is quiet. Jack falls asleep after a little while, his exhaustion winning over his desire to keep Russell company.

Russell keeps sneaking him glances, looking at his slack and sleeping face and trying to picture their future together. It’s there, if he wants it, maybe. It’s there if he just reaches out and takes it, and in the street outside his flat, he shakes Jack awake, gently as he can.

It’s late enough that the hours have already turned early and they both have work in the morning.

“Hi, love,” Jack mumbles, knuckling against his eyes to rid himself of sleep. “Bollocks, are we already here? You should have woken me.”

Russell nods absently and tries for a smile. “Sorry,” he says, for the millionth time of the day. At least the meaning behind this one is different.

Jack snorts, popping him in the arm lazily. “What did we say about that word?”

“Um,” Russell stalls, but Jack’s more awake now, staring at him with the same kind of single-minded focus that got them camping in the beginning of the month. His eyes are wide like he’s ready and listening, and Russell blurts, “I could really love you, I think.”

It’s not the sort of confession that should be met with silence. Russell stares at Jack as Jack stares back. They’re mirror images of each other, almost, until Jack wipes at his face and laughs.

“I can apparently add comedian to my list of skills, can I?” Russell says eventually, smiling awkwardly. This is only the second time he’s ever said something remotely like this, something with this weight and gravity, and Jack’s just staring at him, laughing, but not at all mirthful.

“Russ,” Jack says, and Russell’s gut goes tight so quickly he’s nearly gasping from it. Jack’s chewing on his lip, drawing blood from the part he’s been biting at all day.

“Jack,” Russell mimics. Jack’s smiling, but it looks less, somehow, like he’s already packing pieces of himself away.

“I’m not saying you don’t,” he says quietly.

Russell closes his eyes. “But you don’t,” he offers. He feels hollow and emptying quickly as Jack’s silence stretches. “Alright, then,” he says, turning the car off. He slides out, wiping his palms on the legs of his smart trousers and heading down towards the building. The night is cold, despite the end-of-summer heatwave they’d felt during the day, and he doesn’t stop when Jack starts to call his name, doesn’t even stop when Jack’s hands circle around his arm, tugging at him.

“You didn’t even give me a chance, mate!” he shouts when they’re face to face again. His eyes are still red-rimmed, like more tears are at bay, maybe, like the day’s events have barely even started, let alone finished. “No one’s ever said that to me before, and you’re running off before I even have a chance to figure myself out.”

Russell blinks at him. Jack’s cheeks are ruddy and he’s panting a little from the run. “You smoke too much,” he says.

Jack rolls his eyes, “And fuck you too, mate,” but there’s no heat to it. “Am I forgiven, then?” he asks, nudging their arms together. “I get a pass for not saying it back right away, huh? Considering my Auntie was buried today and all.”

“But you’ve known for a few days,” Russell says, another weak attempt at humor.

Jack smiles again, or tries to, and then says, “Actually, Professor, it’s in the wee hours of the morning, isn’t it? Technically, it’s been a week. A week exactly!”

“Really, your reflexes should be better by now,” Russell reasons, when Jack smiles at him now, it’s the first time he’s looked normal all day. Russell starts to turn, heading towards the flat, but Jack stays where he is, leaning back on his heels. He’s rumpled, sad and exhausted, and he’s beautiful. Russell says, “Do you think—this is a good thing we have going.”

Jack smiles at him again, less certain this time. “If you have to ask—” he jokes, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“I mean,” Russell breathes, trying to make sense of it, of the two of them, of Glen, of the family he’s amassed. “I just mean—”

“You can take it back, mate,” Jack says, quietly, like he’s reading something in Russell’s eyes he doesn’t even know himself yet. “If that’s what you’re saying, or if you were just being kind.”

“When am I kind?” Russell asks, and that makes Jack laugh again. It’s starting to rain lightly, and the mist clings to Jack’s eyelashes, making him look even younger than usual, even younger than he had that morning.

“Always,” Jack says, and then pushes both of them in the building, his breath hot against the back of Russell’s neck.

In the flat, they undress quickly, not even bothering to turn on the light. Jack’s feet are freezing.

“Hey,” Russell asks. “You want me to turn on the—”

“No,” Jack yawns. It’s an old argument. “Just get in here, you great big nancy.”

“You’re the one with the cold feet,” Russell reasons.

“Yeah, mate,” Jack mumbles, eyes already closed. “But you’re the one who noticed.”

* 

It’s an okay few weeks. Russell goes to work, he meets Jack at the shop and they either get dinner and walk home together or chat on the phone as Jack gets the train home to see his mum.

Sometimes they have dinner with Jamie and the girls. Sometimes they go to films. Mostly they spend time in the flat, eating curries from the Indian over the road and debating the merits of the new Doctor versus the old ones. It’s more comfortable than Russell’s ever been with a person apart from Jamie.

In October, one of Jack’s mates from sixth form has a birthday. “You should come,” he says, sprucing up in the mirror in Russell’s bedroom. “It’s just at the pub down the road, you’ll be home before your stories even start, Gran.”

Russell rolls his eyes. “They don’t know me,” he says. “I’m all for a quiet drink at the pub, but it’s her birthday.”

“It’s a big pub and Shireen’s a big girl,” Jack says, and then he cracks himself up, meeting Russell’s eyes in the mirror as he adds, “She actually is, right? There was this one time school, she wore this tiny little top and her tits were, like, massive, right, on display everywhere, and I thought, ‘Shite, there must be a God.’ Who else could’ve created such a body?”

Russell laughs, leaning back on the bed and watching Jack preen. “Didn’t you know, in school?”

“Didn’t I know I was a pouf, you mean?” Jack asks. “‘Course I knew, you git, but if anybody could do it, Shireen’s tits could. They’re a thing of beauty.” Russell laughs again, trying to picture Jack even younger than he is and can’t.

At the door, and Russell says, “Be home by midnight,” and Jack snorts as they kiss, even though it was only a joke.

“You know, you’re not that much older than me, Dad,” Jack says and cracks himself up again. “Daddykins? Would you like me to shout that as you spank me in bed? I was never into kink, myself, but I bet I could get it up for you,” he leans closer, affecting a truly shit American accent. “Pops?”

The door’s only open a crack, but they hear the soft gasp of one of the neighbors and start to laugh again, a surprisingly loud cacophony of sound.

“Not in bed, thanks,” Russell says, and Jack just shakes his head as he edges into the hall, zipping up his jacket.

“Spoilsport!” he shouts, and then he’s gone.

Russell must fall asleep on the couch, because when he wakes up again, it’s to the duvet tucked up under his chin and Jack asleep on the chair in the corner.

Russell gets up slowly, kneeling in front of Jack to whisper, “Hey,” and pressing his palms to Jack’s knees. “Hey,” he whispers again, when Jack opens his eyes. “Come to bed, alright? What’s wrong?”

Jack goes easily enough, but when they’re naked and under the covers, he rolls over and mumbles, “Ran into your mate at a club,” quietly. He yawns, scrunching his nose. “Glen, was it?”

Russell’s stomach goes tight, fingers curling into fists, and he says, “Oh?” even though that won’t suffice at all.

Jack nods, and adds, “Nice bloke,” with a shrug. He’s nearly asleep again before he mumbles, “You should’ve told me you used to shag, though.”

He falls asleep, quite pissed, if the snoring is any indication, but that’s not what keeps Russell up for the rest of the night. He watches the sun streak across the sky, listens to Jack breathing and thinks about Jack and Glen at a bar, getting drinks at the same time, eyes meeting in recognition.

Jack spends the next morning sick in the loo, the only sounds of his continued well-being the conversation he has with Ahmed from the newsagents, head still halfway in the toilet as he shouts, “Ahmed, mate, unless you want me to _vomit_ on Mrs Hathaway, I won’t be there. I’ll work overtime or summat tomorrow, alright? Leave me in peace.”

Russell can’t hear Ahmed’s side of the conversation, but he can’t imagine the disagreement. Jack’s boss is peaceable and dry but not particularly argumentative.

When Jack crawls back into bed, it’s half twelve and he’s paler than the sheets and blankets. “Don’t even say a word,” he groans when Russell looks up from his laptop. “You said midnight, and I was late.” A glimmer of a smile flits across his lips and he says, “You can spank me if you want, but later, alright? Sonny boy needs a nap.”

Russell laughs despite himself and says, “You are such a mess.”

Jack cracks an eye open and says, “Yeah, but I’m your mess, ain’t I?”

* 

They don’t talk about it until later. They’re at a cafe by the flat Jack rarely uses, and between mouthfuls of a full English and juice, Jack says, “So why didn’t you tell me?” He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and raises his brows behind his glasses.

“Tell you what?” Russell asks, even though he knows. Jack snorts like he knows too.

“About you and Glen, mate,” he says, and then continues to spell it out. “The whole lovelorn affair. I was impressed when he mentioned it, really. I said, ‘Russell? My Russell, busting out the declarations and in the middle of a train station no less? You must have the wrong bloke’. But he was insistent that it was you.”

“How did you get on the topic?” Russell asks. “I mean, he’s not—he’s not the manipulative sort. Did you ask him?”

Jack shrugs. “We were at Feather Shadows,” he says. “You know the one with the,” he makes a hand gesture that to a passerby could be anything, but Russell knows it just by sight, and laughs despite himself. They’d gone together when it had opened, and there were huge ceramic plumes extending out from the walls like giant feathered penises, ready to attack. “I still can’t believe it’s not a pouf bar, mate,” Jack says, breaking his train of thought. “Whoever thought of that design—”

“Maybe he was a pouf,” Russell says, and they smile at each other. It’s a lovely day, even for late October, and it’s chilly, but the sun is making a rare appearance. Jack’s hair looks like it’s on fire.

“Or she,” Jack says, keeping the thread.

“Or she,” Russell agrees.

Jack takes a sip from his juice glass, and realizing it’s empty, reaches for Russell’s instead. When he wipes his mouth again, he says, “No, he didn’t mention it. I asked why he decided to go to America at all.” He shrugs. “He said for a course, for art, but I said—and I’m paraphrasing myself here, mind, because I don’t know shit for what I said, but fuck, who goes to _America_ for art?”

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so Russell says, “An artist? Someone who wants to travel?”

Jack’s on a roll, though, barely listening. “I mean, everything they have, they took from us, and everything _we_ had, we took from everybody else.” He laughs and says, “You think the Chinese want their Ming vases back?”

Russell grins back despite himself. “I don’t think they’d mind.”

Jack shrugs. “He said he just wanted something different, and I said, or I think I said, ‘so you’re a pouf, right?’ and he said, ‘I’ve never heard it put so badly,’ or summat, I don’t know, something clever, and I said—I said,” Jack scrunches his nose, drinking more juice. “I don’t know, mate,” he says, patting Russell’s hand absently. “He’s a nice bloke, if you ask me. Little sad, but who wouldn’t be, if they let you get away?”

He lifts his hand, pinching Russell’s cheek so hard it hurts. Russell blinks, batting his hands away and says, “He said that?” he can’t stand to examine the way his voice sounds, so he doesn’t, powering through. “Glen, I mean. He didn’t say that, didn’t he?” He swallows. “That he let me get away. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t—”

Jack shrugs. “We didn’t really have a heart-to-heart about it, Russ. He just said you were a right good one, and that I should be careful with you, whatever that means, because he wasn’t.”

Russell bites down so hard on his lip that it hurts, and he says, “I don’t need people to be _careful_ —” he says, cutting himself off. Glen wasn’t careful, but he wasn’t either.

“I know,” Jack says quietly. He touches Russell’s hand again. “I know, mate, alright? That’s what I told him. ‘He’s a big boy,’ I said. ‘He can take on this whole room with one hand’. I showed him.”

“You did not,” Russell says, but he’s calming down, laughing despite himself.

“How do you know?” Jack asks, brows raised again. “You wouldn’t come with me to see Shireen’s Wonder Tits, Father Time.”

* 

Jack’s spending the weekend with his mum at the end of the month, and he invites Russell along, but he qualifies it with, “Honestly, love, it’ll be swigging wine—me, crying—me, again, going through Agatha’s things with a stiff upper lip and more strength than a bullfighter—Mum. Do you really want to see that?” He leans forward and kisses Russell, like he’s softening the blow. “You’re welcome to come, though, if you don’t mind a weeping handful.”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Russell says, even though the thought of Jack upset makes him feel that way too. “You’ll call, though? If you need anything?” Jack holds up his mobile like a white flag of surrender, and they kiss again with the door open. It feels like a bold, brave move, even though there’s no one out in the hall.

Jamie pops by in the evening, with a scan photo of the new little one and a bottle of wine. “Oh,” he says, disappointed when he realizes Jack’s away. “I think I like him even more than you.”

Russell laughs and says, “I wouldn’t blame you,” and somewhere after the fifth pass-around, adds, “He knows about Glen,” quietly. “Jack does, I mean. They met by chance at some pub, I think. For a mate’s birthday.”

Jamie, bless him, doesn’t miss a beat. He says, “Same mate?” With some surprise, nodding when Russell shakes his head. “Didn’t think so.” When more information isn’t forthcoming, Jamie asks, “So. Was he angry?” but contradicts himself by saying, “No, he wouldn’t be. How did you find out?”

Russell shrugs, combing his fingers through his hair in defeat. “He told me.” He laughs a little, even though the seizures in his stomach are anything but funny. “Plain as day. ‘You should’ve told me you used to shag’, like that’s all it was.”

Jamie rolls his eyes, ever the voice of reason, and says, “That is all it was. You tell a boy like Jack you spent a weekend shagging a bloke who moved to America the next day, and he’s not going to imagine the deep, ever-lasting connection that came with it. He’s going to imagine that you spent a no-strings weekend buggering someone attractive.” Jamie shrugs, mimicking Russell’s earlier action. “Not everyone wants the strings, mate. You tell him about that?” he asks.

“No,” Russell says. “Why are we still discussing this?” He feels parched and argumentative, like this is a conversation they’ve been having for years. In the pub, later, he says, “You were wrong, Jamie,” but it’s the words themselves that feel wrong. “I picked Jack. Not that there was even a competition.”

“Do you love him?” Jamie asks, and a table over, a gaggle of women are having the same conversation. Russell avoids Jamie’s eyes. It’s all he can do to keep from laughing.

Eventually, they eat, sharing a platter of chicken masala and a lamb dopiaza between the two of them. The sauce is so thick Russell’s licking it off his lips for hours afterwards. It’s delicious.

Later, Jamie repeats himself. They’re moving the sofa around in the flat, sweating from the exertion and the thermostat, and Jamie says, “Honestly, Russell, just. Do you love him?”

Russell wipes at his face, looking out the window at the thin flakes of snow curling down from the sky. “Who?” he asks. “Glen, d’you mean? I still don’t even really know him.”

Jamie’s disappointment is evident when he says, “Jack,” quietly, on a sigh. Russell turns and looks over his shoulder, half expecting to see him standing there like a ghost. He’s not there.

Russell’s face heats up, and he says, “Of course I love Jack,” quickly, the way people who are often wrong are also often certain. “He’s lovely.”

Jamie doesn’t stay much longer.

*

They split up just after Christmas. There’s shouting, of course, and they'd fought, a tussle dragging them down on the floor, with Jack's knuckles just glancing Russell's ribs. He'd said, "Shite, shite, I'm sorry," and pulled away in horror, as if the physicality was shocking to him. They'd been desperate as they'd kissed, dragging each other closer because they knew it was the last time.

It’s the goodbye that leaves him reeling, though, the way Jack hugs him, even though there are claw marks on both their backs, and Russell’s still breathing hard, because he’s young, but he was never young like Jack is young, and he’s nowhere near as young as he used to be.

“Just so you know,” Jack says, standing at the door and surveying the destruction of the flat like a kingdom. “It wasn’t like.” He turns his eyes away, chewing at his lip, and if he has a tell, it’s this one. He always looks this way when he’s preparing to lie. “I really liked you,” he says, smiling with all his teeth. “You’re a well-fit bloke, Russ, really.” Their eyes meet again, Jack turning almost forcefully, like he’s remembered suddenly that Russell knows all his quirks and he’s forcing himself to change.

“You don’t have to leave,” Russell says, and because this is the middle of the argument and not the beginning, he repeats himself. “I’m not asking you to leave. I don’t want you to leave.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Jack asks, and he squints across the space, like maybe that will make Russell finally come into focus again. “I asked you if you wanted to—” he turns his head away again, but this time it’s because he’s embarrassed. Jack rarely slips, is rarely serious, and when he looks forward again, the color is high in his cheeks. “D’you know what a ponce I felt, asking you if you wanted to get a flat together?” He shrugs his shoulders, broad under his threadbare shirt. “D’you know how long I thought about whether I should even ask, how long I planned it? I practically live here anyway, but I wanted, I thought, maybe—”

“You do live here,” Russell argues. “When was the last time you even went home?”

They’re rehashing the same points, of course. “That’s not the point though, is it?” Jack asks. “I asked if you wanted to make something _new_.” His voice cracks, and when Russell looks at him, he sees how truly young Jack is, despite all the bravado and posturing to hide it. Jack takes a breath, deep and shuddering. “I asked if you wanted to make something new,” he repeats. “And you said, ‘I like this flat’.”

“I do like this flat!” Russell argues, but it sounds weak, even to him, even as he means it. Even as Jack’s right.

“It’s just a _flat_ ,” Jack rages, and he looks as though he’s going to throw something again, maybe something bigger than the last time, maybe a chair now, instead of just a lamp.

Russell’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat, maybe even lower, deep below in his chest, and he says, “I know,” quietly, even though Jack knows this part too.

They stare at each other eventually, each slumped on the floor on either side of the room and Jack says, “You won’t say it, and you maybe don’t even believe it, Russ, but this is about him.” He shrugs, like he’s wise and world-weary, instead of a twenty-two year old kid that knows too much for his own good.

Russell rubs at his face, knuckling the exhaustion from his eyes and says, “It can’t just be because of the flat?”

Jack rests his elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face. He mumbles, “Not if you’re only keeping it so that he can come back to you.”

Russell could protest, he could lie, but what he says is, “I don’t want you to leave,” because that’s true too.

Jack looks across the flat, across the, intermingled mess of their lives and says, “I don’t even hate you for it,” the decision already made. “I might pop by, break his pretty-boy nose, but I don’t hate you.” He rubs his knuckles absently, and Russell nearly touches the spot on his ribs that bears their indent. “I probably will when I leave here. When Mum calls and asks what’s happened to you, and why I’ve turned into a recluse that only answers the mobile every third Thursday.” He laughs wetly, rubbing his face. “Then I might hate you a little. But not yet.”

“He might not ever—” Russell says. “What if he doesn’t?” He can’t even really say the words aloud. “Why bugger up a good thing on a maybe?”

When Jack laughs, it sounds genuine, real. “Why didn’t you follow him to America when you had the chance the first time, you gobshite?”

*

Russell doesn’t know what happened with the job or the possibility of one in America when he sees Glen at the Tescos down the road a few weeks into the new year, struggling with his shopping and talking on his mobile. Russell crosses without thinking and smiles his hello as Glen straightens himself out.

He hands one of the bags over without comment, his mobile tucked between his shoulder and ear as he says, “Bailey, Bailey, honestly, reduce the wine sauce and if it’s terrible, just don’t put it on the chicken. We’ll drink it down and think of England. Some party this’ll be.” He laughs as they walk, but all Russell can hear is a tinny voice on the other end, can’t make out any words. “Honestly,” Glen says when they’ve hung up, turning to smile at Russell like this is an every day occurrence, like it hasn’t been months since they’ve seen each other. “He wanted to throw the wine away. Who does that?”

Russell laughs. “Obviously not someone who appreciates the finer points of wine,” he says, almost surprised at how easily it is to slip back into this. He remembers the first time they’d really spoken, Glen’s tape recorder in his face, and the way he couldn’t think of anything to say but that it was lovely, that _Glen_ was lovely, that that was all he needed.

Glen’s still lovely, still too thin under a nothing-colored leather jacket and tight jeans. His hair is longer, but it suits his face. He’s the loveliest thing Russell’s ever seen.

“It’s not even the finer points,” Glen’s saying. “It’s the act of getting pissed in general.” He makes a face. “Does it even matter what you’re drinking?”

Russell shrugs. “I suppose not, although I’m not partial to tequila.” He pats his stomach awkwardly, and nearly bumps into a granny in the street in the split-second he closes his eyes from embarrassment. “It always makes me ill.”

Glen doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if he has, he hasn’t mentioned it. “That’s the best way, though,” he says. “It works the fastest.” He shrugs, taking a turn down a street Russell’s not familiar with. He follows, considering the carrier bags he’s holding aren’t his.

“What are you drinking to forget, then?” Russell asks. He’s not sure if it’s making conversation or actual interest, but Glen smiles when he asks, walking backwards to face him.

“You, mostly,” he says and doesn’t laugh when Russell starts to.

“You’re taking the piss,” Russell says. There’s no doubt about it. Glen meets his gaze head on, unflinching, but he doesn’t smile.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “I am taking the piss, Russell. It’s not you. It’s my Uncle Geoffrey. He won’t return my calls.” He shrugs, casually. “He touched me inappropriately as a child and seems angry now that I’m selling the story to the papers.” Glen makes a face. “It’s such a shame when families dismantle over such silliness.”

“Is he famous, then?” Russell asks.

“Oh yes, very much,” Glen says. “He’s in the House of Lords, has a powdered wig and everything. It’s very impressive. I might be made a baronet for my trouble.”

“Will you get a piece of land as well?”

Glen shrugs. “If I play my cards right.” He stops again, at an unfamiliar building in an unfamiliar part of the borough, switching all the bags to one hand as he fishes in his impossibly tight pocket for his keys.

Russell leans against the wall, cap pressing against the brick as he says, “Please tell me you’re taking the piss.”

Glen meets his eyes, leans forward conspiratorially and says, “Don’t believe a word,” and then, “Except for the ones about you.” He opens the door finally, holding it that way with his hip, and over his shoulder calls, “Come on up, if you’re coming. There are a lot of stairs, I don’t want to make a second trip.”

Instead of staring at Glen’s arse on the walk up, Russell counts stairs; he takes in the sleek look of the walls, and the way the wood seems to shine from the paltry light that peeks through the vaulted windows.

Glen’s flat, when they get there, is small but well-lived-in. There are boxes everywhere, but Russell can’t determine if they’re recently packed or ready to unpack, such is the disorder.

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” Glen says, tossing his bags down by the counter in the kitchenette and motioning for Russell to do the same. “I’m moving.”

Russell leans back against the counter and says, “Oh yeah? Where to, someplace bigger?”

Glen smiles, but there’s something hidden to it. “I suppose so,” he says, popping open the fridge to pull out a bottle of wine. “I haven’t seen the place yet, but I’m assured it’s big enough to hold me.”

He uncorks the wine expertly, taking a sip before handing it over. “You haven’t seen your new place?” Russell asks, sipping as well, before setting the bottle down on the counter. “Isn’t that a little strange?”

Glen shrugs. “Not if you consider the move a lateral one,” he says. He shakes his head, as if remembering something important and says, “I wish I’d had you over to see the place when it wasn’t such a sty. The light in here is gorgeous.” He smiles at Russell again. “That’s the main reason I agreed to a flat so small.”

“I’m sorry you’ll have to lose that,” Russell says. “It sounds lovely.”

The word seems to trigger something in Glen, a memory, but he doesn’t come closer as he speaks.

“I don’t know how this keeps happening to us,” he says, but Russell doesn’t even have time to ask before he’s continuing on. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” The words cut through Russell like the worst of a binge, like the sting of cold wind or the sharp rasp of a cough. He can barely breathe. “San Francisco this time,” Glen continues, as if oblivious to Russell’s distress. Maybe he is. “I’ve been asked to do a lecture series.”

“Ah,” Russell says, eventually, but it’s barely a sound at all. “And all your shopping? This is a lot of food for a bloke leaving in the morning.”

Glen laughs and says, “Too true. Would you believe me if I told you they don’t have Marmite in America?”

Russell laughs politely. “I would,” he says. They stand awkwardly for a few moments, before he clears his throat and says, “And this position?”

“It’s a very good opportunity,” Glen says quickly. “It’s what I—well.” He shrugs. “You probably don’t remember now, but it’s what I stopped by to tell you over the summer. It was just an idea, then, just a seed one of the lecturers in my course had before I left.” He smiles and just for a moment before he speaks again, he looks radiant. “I can’t really believe it worked, tell you the truth, but. It’ll be good, I think. It’ll get the idea out.”

Russell’s parched, throat too dry to even swallow properly, and he takes another swig from the wine to combat his nerves and the way his stomach suddenly feels empty.

“That’s wonderful,” he says. “I’m happy for you, Glen.” He hands the wine back over and steps backward, being careful not to trip over his feet. “You deserve it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Glen says. “But thank you, Russell.” He touches Russell’s arm, just fleetingly, and adds, “You’ve always been very kind.”

“Wouldn’t go that far either,” Russell says. “I can be a right bastard when I want to be.” He shrugs. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.” It’s an old joke, one he and Jamie have perfected over the years, and he watches Glen’s eyes as he gets it, as he remembers and he smiles.

“Thank you for the help today,” Glen says eventually, breaking the eye contact and turning to hoist the bags up onto the counter. “Honestly, Bailey just kept calling. You’d think he’d never seen a chicken before.”

“I’ve heard they’re a wild sort of species,” Russell deadpans. “Completely unused to human interaction.”

Glen smiles. “Is that so?” he asks.

“It is.”

“I’ll have to go easier on him, then,” Glen says. “He should thank you for that.”

“I was only doing my part,” Russell says, and then, “I should get going.” He gestures awkwardly toward the door over his shoulder. “It was nice to see you again, Glen. Good luck with the lectures. I’ve no doubt you’ll do well.”

He smiles as brightly as he can and turns to leave.

When he’s at the door, Glen says, “Russell?” and he stops. “Russell,” Glen repeats. “Do you—that is. I didn’t ask you the last time, because you’re not supposed to make life-altering decisions based on weekend shags.” He coughs awkwardly, but Russell doesn’t turn around. He can barely move.

Glen stops speaking, caught in himself and memories, probably, so Russell says, “It’s not wise to do that, no,” still facing the door.

“The thing is, though,” Glen says, and now he sounds like he’s coming closer. “It’s been nearly three years now, hasn’t it? Can we make life-altering decisions based on that?”

His hand is heavy and warm on Russell’s arm, and Russell’s chewing so hard on his bottom lip he’s torn it, his tongue laving over skin and blood. His mouth tastes of metal.

“I don’t know,” Russell says when he turns around. His voice comes out calmer than he’d been expecting.

Glen meets his eyes. He doesn’t look nervous. He looks like a man diving off the edge of a cliff with no parachute and no clear path to land on. He’s more beautiful than he’s ever been.

“You don’t know if you’ll go?”

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Russell reasons. “No one’s asked me anything yet.”

Glen smiles as he gets it, really and truly grins and says, “You’re a wanker,” like that’s what’s final.

“I keep on telling you,” Russell says. “You never believe me.”

“Would you like to come,” Glen asks abortively. “Russell, would you like to come with me to America?”

**Author's Note:**

> For those who were wondering: Jack O'Connell is a real person! (But a composite of himself in this story, really, because the real Jack O'Connell is an actor - of SKINS and United fame) I know that's a little weird, but I was always planning on writing a boyfriend for Russell, and as I was writing, the image of this dude in my head seemed more and more like this guy I already knew of and appreciated, and thus story!Jack was born. I hope everybody enjoyed reading about him as much as I enjoyed writing about him.


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